


The Suicide Note of Doctor John Hamish Watson

by AuroraDefae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, suicide note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraDefae/pseuds/AuroraDefae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Johnlock. My first obvious. wowza.</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His hand twitches. _Come on, put pen to paper, just do it._ A tear lands on the paper, smearing the 'Dear' already written on it. He crumbles it up before sitting back with his face in his hands, not caring if the ink gets on his face. The very fact he is writing this note contradicts the purpose of it.

 

His final words, if he could just put the pen to paper without daydreaming of Romeo-Juliet death as the contradictory walked in to see his final moments. He had watched them, as he jumped of that building. He had been bloody. His friend.

 

_Sherlock._

 

 _No, don't think of that, don't think of that._ His anger and frustration coursing, he got another sheet from the stack.

 

He got through 'Dear Sherlock' before throwing the pen at the smiley face.

 

Oh hope, what a bloody hell. He could barely move without moving back. He tried every circumstance he could, trying to align chance so he would come back. Even for a moment. One touch of his hand, or just...

****

His hand twitched again, and he sniffed as he looked around. The pain in his leg made it impossible to move, so he had withered away in the living room by the fireplace. He was surrounded by paper. He caught some of his phrases, shuddering at the ones induced by drugs, unreadable.

 

_......"Darkness, even in sun"....._

_......."I do not count. No one comes by, Sherlock, not after me brandishing my gun. Why, oh why, did I not turn it on myself."...._

_........"Sher"........._

 

He looked away, retreating to darkness. The hole within him makes this self-isolation easy.

 

The shaking in his hand settling, he reaches for another pen to continue the note.

 

"Dear Sherlock," he sobs before gathering strength, "I have waited three years. Three bloody long years. At first, I thought you would come back, but the years wore on and..and..I began to doubt my eyes, and what I saw, and just..I lost that glimmering hope. Others have tried to help me, but I shout or threaten at them, and they gave up pretty fast. I found drugs hidden in the fireplace, and got so upset my leg's gone out completely. I started to use them as you would have, to focus and remove emotions, but got addicted. Every time I wake up, I know my leg is all that is keeping me from becoming a Hyde."

 

"People out there are laughing, Sherlock. They are happy with you dead. You were forgotten. How? You were brilliant. Just bloody brilliant, amazing, fantastic, intelligent, I...."

 

He break off at this point. Even if he's....dead, those words don't mean much. I love you. Too weak, too suggestive. He wanted to be near him, hear that breathing, how it sped up when he had an epiphany in a case. He wanted to see his seafoam eyes that lit up with a brilliance in the sun. Or see his black curls again. They would bounce in the back when he walked fast.

 

He laughed at the thought, tears coming out as he drifted out of control and partially broke down again. I can't do this, he thought as he tried to reach for the bag of powder. He halted, puzzled. He couldn't reach the drugs. Someone had moved them.

****

Oh what the hell. Let's end this. How sad that was; let us end this. There was hope ringing in that thought. _Us_. A clear word, like a bell. _Us_. He conjured a phantom-Sherlock, who smiled at him, before turning to a look of horror as John's fingers reached for the gun. It was out of his reach. The breath of relief from the phantom-Sherlock ruffled his hair.

 

It ruffled his hair.

 

_Oh god. How crazy am I? How bad am I?_

 

He reached vainly for the gun before screaming in defeat.

 

Hands came forward.

 

_Oh god, oh god........_

 

Warm hands, tears, tracing his cheeks, his eyes, his ears.

 

"Oh John, oh John..."

 

He tried to bat away this Phantom-Sherlock, reaching his arm out, hyperextending it before grazing the gun.

 

He grasped it, turning it to his head, right by the temple.

 

A struggle ensued, the phantom trying to pull it out, calling his name and crying.

 

His finger twitched.

 

The phantom seized his shirt in his hands and pulled John to him, kissing him straight on the mouth.

 

_He was real._

_He was real._

_He was real._

****

John broke down.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Johnlock. My first obvious. wowza.

Sherlock held his friend in his arms, burying his face in the static-y hair and making calming noises as he rocked back and forth.

****

_John, I’m so sorry._

_**** _

_Loss of at least twenty pounds, tendonitis in his leg, psychosomatic limp back, no food in a week...._

_**** _

John sobbed louder, and Sherlock's mind went blank for a moment. Mycroft's texts had worried him, but hadn't covered the gravity of the situation that was unraveling in his arms. They had vaguely told of the stash in the fireplace, the gun, the lack of food, of malnourishment. This was the far left of what he been told of.

****

John began hyperventilating in shock and Sherlock slapped him on the face hard. John froze in shock before taking a shaky breath.

****

“Y..you..your alive?”

****

Sherlock bit his lip, the words he had rehearsed going away at the sight of the gaunt skeleton in front of him. He just reached out and held John again in his arms, words useless. Completely, utterly unthinkable. Silence, the touch of skin to scratchy fabric- those were words enough. The words to convey that the other was alive. The smell of gunpowder, pollution, chemicals- all mingled as they embraced each other, the smaller man crumbling in his resurrected friend’s arms.

****

“John-”

****

Silence.

****

“I’m so sorry. So incredibly sorry..” he cupped John’s stubbly face in his hand. “I never thought that this,” his voice cracked, “would happen. I’m so sorry.”

****

John bit his lower lip as he looked up at Sherlock, his eyes red and puffy.

****

“But you’re back now. That’s what matters though, right?” John’s voice was slightly hoarse, as if he had spent the three years crying for his friend.

****

Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth turn up into a brief smile as John forced his mouth into a smile. Sherlock suddenly felt his eyes water and he broke eye contact as he shrunk back into himself.

****

Back to the smoke. Back to the darkness. Back to the alleyways and windows where he had watched John. Back to the cloak. Back to the chaos.

****

John reached out to him, but he shrunk back.

****

What monster would do this to a friend?

****

Who else but him? The one who hurt people without trying. The one...who destroyed everything he touched.

****

He felt the hysteria in him rising, and he fought it as John stared at him, his face stark white and worry stamped across it.

****

He shouldn’t be here.

****

He struggled to come to term with the fact that he had to go. That he couldn’t stay here to comfort John.

****

That he had to leave like smoke, leaving only an impression of imagining.

****

His every muscles protesting, he slowly stood up, struggling to keep his face impassive.

****

"Where-?" John started, but Sherlock just shook his head and started to turn away. He froze when the floor boards squeaked behind him, and he turned to see John trying to stand up, hanging heavily on the mantle. Sherlock felt himself sigh, and he walked over to his friend, whose arm he put around his shoulders. They slowly moved to an armchair, and dust puffed up as John dropped into it. He sneezed. "Please don't go."

****

Sherlock could feel himself crumbing again, his want to stay overriding his doubts. His gaze towards John softened, and he reached out his hand, not even knowing he was doing it. John reached up and took it, tugging on Sherlock's arm. The two of them fell into another hug, except John was comforting his crumbling friend. More dust had poofed up, and John sneezed again. John began laughing, not really at anything in particular, just laughing slowly at first, surprised after all these years the sound came to him. Sherlock joined it after a minute, and they hugged each other even tighter until they wereable to catch their breath.

****

"I missed you idiot, you know that right?" Job had tears in his eyes for multiple reasons, some sad, some happy.

****

Sherlock pulled away from the hug, realizing he was going to stay . There was no way John was better off without him....and there was no way he could live without John.

****

"I missed you too, John," Sherlock said, straightening John's collar.

****

"Sherlock.."

****

Jonn's eyes were soft.

****

"John..."

****

They leaned towards each other and kissed again, this time less last-moment and more tender. It also didn't have an air of finality to it.

****

The smoke and dust had blown away, leaving in its place two people as they had been all those years ago, except they were stronger. There still were tragedies striking deep, but they would surmount them. They had survived.

****  
  
  



End file.
